


Cold Shoulder (One-Shot)

by WaffleWarrior



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cold Weather, Comfort, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Helpful John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John is a Good Friend, Major Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, Past Drug Use, Reader-Insert, References to Drugs, Sherlock Apologizes, Sherlock Being Considerate, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Good Friend, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 00:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16051850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaffleWarrior/pseuds/WaffleWarrior
Summary: You storm out of 221B when Sherlock's comments set you off, except it's on the coldest night of the year. One-Shot(This is an old fic. I'm debating on re-writing it.)





	Cold Shoulder (One-Shot)

You held a hand over your mouth, softly crying into it, tears threatening to spill. You were an idiot, as always. One crude deduction had sent you spiraling, screaming and shrieking at the clueless detective that you were done. That you didn't want to stay there anymore. Only seeing red, you had grabbed your coat in a clenched fist and slammed the door behind you, not thinking twice about it.

So here you were, sitting on the street, a few feet away from a drug den, trying to calm the choked sobs that made you curl up into a ball and gasp for breath as your vision blurred. You bit your lip, holding your breath and squeezing your eyes, hot tears falling onto your knees. You'd always been a silent crier; you didn't like to cry in public. You always cried in the shower, or at night, or when nobody was home. Crying so silently sent you shuddering for breath, erratically sobbing into your arm. You couldn't stop. You were just so done with everything that it hurt.

So there you sat, pitifully sobbing on an alleyway floor, curled up in your thin coat. The cold wind nipped and bit at your tear stricken face, gnawing at your nose and ears. When snow started to fall you only cried harder, wishing you were safely back at your flat in your warm bed. You were huddled up against the wall, trying to hide from the bitter frost.

Your dignity would not allow you to go back. You had said you were done, and you would not allow Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing you couldn't stick to your word. Darkly, you wondered if you would end like the people in the drug den, or another case for Sherlock to solve. How ironic it would be for Sherlock to find your body in an alleyway, or maybe it would be amusing. Or perhaps, you would be the bad guy, the one that created the silly cases for Sherlock to see your work. The thoughts were random, useless. Of course, you wouldn't end up like that. They were the kind of thoughts you get when you peer over a bridge and wonder what it would be like to fall, but of course everyone ignores those thoughts... No, most.

You clenched your teeth, letting a hiss leave your mouth as another round of sobbing built into your lungs, which begged for air. You wondered what you had done. What you had done to deserve this. Why you had ever left the flat. Why you couldn't have just had your tantrum and stomped to your room. Why you had to be such a crybaby. So much regret and guilt squeezed at your lungs and it had nowhere to go. Even worse, you, in general, had nowhere to go. You had screwed yourself over.

You hadn't even thought to snatch your wallet from the table. How humiliating would it be to have to walk back in to grab your money? To see that smirk on his face as you marched out the door. Or, maybe you wouldn't march out the door. Being outside for the night was miserable. You would never apologize, or would you? While Sherlock had been rude and had neglected your feelings, you had overreacted. You had already had a bad day, and Sherlock had just pushed and prodded too much. But you'd never meant to leave.

Shaky cries mixed with coughing as the wind picked up. Shivers combined with sobs. You didn't know if you were shaking from the chilly air or your emotional breakdown. But you didn't care. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. You'd screwed up.

You froze when you heard sharp, calculated steps, and a tall shadow strolling your way. You couldn't see their face, which terrified you. You knew it was Sherlock, it had to be. But the silence was unbearable. What if it was a creep? What would you do then? But it had to be Sherlock. Of course it was Sherlock. Right..?The figure finally reached you, crouching. His cheekbones were prominent under the streetlamps. "Y/n. You need to breathe."

You hadn't even realized you were hyperventilating. You couldn't breathe. Your lungs were filled with sobs and coughs and there wasn't any room for air. You choked on your own tongue as your airways only took in shallow breaths.

Sherlock was here. What would you do? You had screamed in his face. You had yelled at him for a simple deduction you had not been fond of. You had snapped at him for being nosy. You remembered what you said to him clearly, the words ringing in your mind and suffocating you. You didn't know what to do. You didn't know what to say. You couldn't even speak.

Sherlock's eyes held a rare concern, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "Y/n. Breathe. Just breathe. You need to breathe." His bony hand cupped your cheek lightly, although forcing eye contact with his bright eyes. His features softened when his gaze met yours. "Breathe."

Right. Breathe. You needed to breathe. You sucked in the crisp air dryly. It hurt, but you listened to Sherlock’s slow, guiding breaths, and slowly, you began to match it. The first thing you said was not graceful, "Sher...lock." You stumbled over your syllables, coughing in between them. You wheezed. You could see your breath in a cold puff under the lamplight.

Sherlock's mouth pinched into a frown, but a relieved sigh left his lips. "I was afraid you..." He glanced at the drug den, shaking his head. He was unsure of what he had pictured when he had assumed your location. Of course, you weren't one to do drugs, but emotions weren't his thing, and you had seemed extremely distressed. Old memories had gripped his heart the more he'd thought of it. He shook off the depressing idea.

He stood, reaching out a hand to your quivering form that was still aching for air. Tentatively, you took it, anxious about how he still felt about your outburst. The second your skin touched, Sherlock snatched your hand and yanked you up with a steady arm on your waist.

You shivered and sharp eyes noticed. "Cold?" Sherlock asked, although it seemed like more of a deduction than a question, so you only nodded, to which he shrugged off his long coat to let it hug you warmly. You weren't sure of what to think about this; Sherlock's long coat draped around your shoulders, his hand resting on your hip, his stunning face leaning in to check on you. Surprisingly, you pressed into his embrace. You merely breathed, desperately needing to steady your abused lungs.

Your legs were numb, stumbling like Bambi as Sherlock led you on a journey back to 221B. Sherlock was patient, pausing when your knees buckled, acting like a crutch. He gave off a comfortable silence.. not an awkward one, not condescending one. Was this what it was like when Sherlock was sweet? John spoke of it sometimes when you asked, telling you a few stories of sweetness he could think of that seemed bizarre at the time. But right now, it seemed very clear that John had never been exaggerating.

Sherlock looked spooked, his hair ruffled messily and the long coat draped over you didn't even have the collar turned up. You had been too harsh on the man, but all the same, he had been too harsh with you. Disregarding someone's feelings wasn't something to take lightly.

Whenever you got angry or ticked, you would vent to John about it. Although he wasn't a phyciatrist, he insisted that it wasn't a bother and he enjoyed listening. You'd vent to him about Sherlock's crude inspecting and cold remarks, but John always told you the same thing. Sherlock really didn't understand timing. He didn't get sentiment sometimes, and he didn't know what to do when people threw their emotions at him. And if you had learned one thing about John during this walk, it was that he didn't exaggerate.

You glanced up at the consulting detective, unsure about how to go about this. "I'm sorry." You whispered it, hesitating. You didn't know why you said it, but the guilt had been weighing on your shoulders. You felt bad for yelling at the detective that really was trying his best, or at least, not poking at your emotions purposely. He was only observing. That's what he did. He was a consulting detective.

Sherlock's nose twitched, sensing your deep thinking as you glanced up at him three times. You'd chewed on your cheek, your eyebrows had furrowed, and you'd breathed a small sigh. It was painfully obvious that you were contemplating something, but he held his tongue. He'd done enough for the night. When the apology passed your lips, it was the last thing he had been expecting. After being ignorant and blunt, you had chosen to forgive. Sherlock didn't know what to do with that. Should he thank her? Should he.. "No, y/n. I played with your feelings. That's not acceptable."

"You didn't know." She replied softly to him, her gentle tone hitting at his heart.

"I deduced it. That should have been where I stopped. That should have been where I shut my mouth." He said, somewhat quoting John's words and twisting them to be harsher. It was always worse than what John made it seem to be. John was too kind to him, too gentle when he screwed things up.

When you had stormed out of the flat, Sherlock had been clueless of what to do. Not wanting to make a wrong decision and chase after you, he waited for John. John had come home from a date, upbeat and in a good mood. Sherlock hated to ruin it with what he had done. When John heard the news, he was quick to tell Sherlock to bring you back, while telling him why it might have hurt yours feelings. Sherlock had nodded regretfully and investigated as to where you had ran off to.

You shook your head, "Maybe, but I overreacted. I pushed all the blame on you, when really I was stressed about earlier today. It wasn't your fault. I lashed out at the truth."

"The truth hurts. I never meant to hurt you."

You smiled softly, pulling the longcoat closer to your body. You were starting to warm up and you no longer wheezed when you spoke. "I know."

You could see the flat ahead a few blocks, it's metal lettering shining under the dim street lights and headlights of passing cars. The lights glowed from the windows and under the door. It looked homey, and most importantly, warm. You were already a frozen ice block, even in Sherlock's coat. You couldn't imagine how cold he was. You pulled him in closer, trying thoughtfully to drape one half of it around him to share it.

He let out a stiff chuckle, curling the fabric back around you. "You're the one who's been sitting outside under frigid conditions. Come, I'll be okay." You both walked up to the door, and being a sudden gentleman, he opened the door for you, beckoning you to go in. "Quickly, you're letting the cold air in." He commented without thinking first. He grimaced a bit, but you ignored the remark.

John was quick to greet you, smiling faintly. "Hey. Good to see you back." His kind demeanor made the soothing glow of the flat seem happier.

You nodded, "It's good to be back."


End file.
